


Royai Week '17

by haganenobeato



Series: Royai Week 2017 [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Mostly Fluff, Some angst, royai week 17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-15 19:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11237916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haganenobeato/pseuds/haganenobeato
Summary: A collection of fluff, angst and some character studies of Riza Hawkeye, Roy Mustang, and their relationship.





	1. Black Tie

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of Royai Week 2017: Black Tie

_It is the end of line, Colonel._

_We’re here on this day. It has taken us 15 years, but we’re here. Your efforts will always be appreciated and recognized as one of the drivers of the new era for Amestris. Effective immediately, you are hereby relieved of your duties as adjutant to the Fuhrer and will be given your own unit, quite like back then. I hope you don’t take this personally, but this is how it was always going to be. We’ve met our goals and now the professional thing to do is to go our separate ways._

_Signed,  
Fuhrer Roy Mustang_

_P.S. Please come to the inauguration ball. I’d like to see Grumman again and he needs someone to escort him._

Riza felt incensed. Disposable. Discarded. Her knuckles turned white as the executive order she clenched in her fists. She slammed it on her desk, the sound of the impact resonating in her office. She gripped the back of a nearby chair before she lost the feeling in her feet.

She prided herself on her ability to process and mask emotions; at this moment, she felt stunned. She tried reasoning with the unreasonable inner turmoil. She asked herself if she created this illusion; if there was even a  flicker of promise for a definitive future. In truth, they never established the epilogue after their end-game. If they had, it was vague and verbless. But even in the worst scenario, she never imagined she would be tossed to the side - as if her bullets no longer made sense.

An uncharacteristic rapid beat pounded in her chest. She studied the Fuhrer’s order again, expecting a discrepancy. A sign. A joke. A forgery. Her trained eyes didn’t spot a tell; he signed the unmistakable signature she knew by each curve and loop himself. Riza reread it one more time.

The post scriptum felt like a slap on her face and her cheeks flushed from frustration and embarrassment. The paper underneath her hand wrinkled as she balled her fists. She stormed out, focusing on her footsteps instead of the tightness in her throat.

Riza headed to Catalina’s; the balmy spring air wafted freely, almost mockingly, around her. Upon arriving, she sat in Rebecca’s kitchen as the words around her sounded muted. She was only half paying attention, but after so many years of experience, she could predict Rebecca’s rants.

She looked up as she was handed a warm drink, a glint catching her eye as she glanced at Rebecca’s outstretched hand. Riza was unable to tear her eyes away from the wedding ring on her friend’s hand. She remembered that wedding, a sunny day in Southern Amestris. The happiness, vibrant and true, was unparalleled in the time they had been together. She was content now having what she always wanted, married and with Havoc no less.

“Riza!”

Riza glanced up again, startled by Rebecca’s change in volume.

“Are you even listening?” she reprimanded with fists to her hips.

“Yes, of course,” Riza intoned.

Rebecca’s arms crossed in front of her. “Then what did I say?”

She placed the mug back down after a sip. “That he’s a no-good man and never will be. Don’t put myself down, because you’re more than that jerk’s adjutant.”

From the corner of her eye, Becca relaxed. “Oh.” But she still huffed as she sat, placing warm hands over the terse ones still on the mug. “But I also said that you should just quit the military, move away, go explore Aerugo like you said you always wanted to, something!”

 _She has a point_ , she mused. Nothing was holding her back. She wasn’t married, and she didn’t have kids. The country wasn’t in danger anymore. She had her own back to watch now.

However, something about leaving everything behind shook her. The more she mulled it over the more she realized it wasn’t so much the fact that he ripped her partner from her. But it was the way he did it and the lack of forewarning that bewildered her.

“All right, fine. Don’t say anything.” She sniped. “I’ll tell you what’s going on with me. You know how Jean’s in the East, right?”

 _That’s right_ , Riza remembered, and nodded.

“Well, I wanted you to know that he and I are going to be trying for a baby when he gets back!” she shrieked and grabbed Riza’s arm, shaking it in excitement. Riza looked at her; she wasn’t even pregnant but she was glowing, practically brimming with excitement. “I can’t believe this, Riza. I am going to be on cloud nine.”

Riza understood the appropriate response, it was the inner storm within her that stopped her from expressing as such. She attempted her best by lifting her eyebrows and smiling openly at her, “Rebecca! How exciting.” Her face fell as she looked back to the mug, furrowing her brow as she took another sip. She was bothered by this and she couldn’t understand why. She suddenly felt like she didn’t want to be there anymore.

She looked to the time and acted. “Oh Rebecca! I’m sorry. I just remembered I have to meet grandfather for something. I have to go,” she lied.

Rebecca was understanding  and walked her to the door. “Remember,” she started with a wagging finger, “you’ll be the first to know about the pregnancy and I expect no less than a wonderful baby shower when the time comes.”

Riza smiled. “Of course, Rebecca. You know I’m here for you.” The door opened for her and Rebecca reached out for a hug.

A chuckle sounded in Riza’s ear. “Same, you emotionless dolt,” she said, squeezing her slightly. “Look at you, going through your first breakup.”

Riza snapped away from her hug, eyebrows pointed angrily. “It’s not a breakup.” Rebecca shot her a “Do you see yourself?” look. Her lips thinned. “Bye Becca.”

The Colonel pushed back thoughts of where her life went at 33, nearly 34, and tried to cast off  any feelings of regret. The purpose she dedicated her life to was important and virtuous. She accomplished plenty for the Amestrian military and could do so much more now that she wasn’t tied to the hip.  Her personal feelings were irrelevant in the situation, and she made a point to dust it all under the rug, no matter how much it stung, no matter how much of the countryside girl was still left in her.

Her grandfather heard of what happened. She didn’t question how. She felt like her grandfather was the last person she’d entrust her intimate feelings to. Yet she did and the retired Fuhrer listened with diligence. 

  
“Men like Mustang are ambitious and goal driven,” he declared and she nodded diligently. ”For him to relieve his most trusted subordinate must mean he has other plans for you. The Fuhrer’s seat couldn’t have been given to a better candidate,” he boasted and Riza didn’t try to hide the drop in her shoulders. When she made no effort to further the line of conversation, he asked her, “What was the issue?”

She shook her head, unable to make reason of it herself.

“If you feel strongly about it, darling, then why don’t you leave the military?”

The statement stunned her for a moment, something she would have never considered. It sounded absurd to her. After 17 years of military service, what else would she do with her life? How could she make a living?

She didn’t realize she had voiced her thoughts out loud, until an elderly hand rested on hers. Her eyes must have betrayed her sadness, not only because she felt it, but because there was a comfort in Grumman’s too. “You wouldn’t have to worry about that,” he said. “I’d take care of you for the days I wasn’t able to.”

Her emotional stability felt as sturdy as a plate on a pole and his proposal suddenly caused earth the shake underneath her feet. It wouldn’t be the first time she took care of her only relative.

He told her, “Think on it, dearest. But in the meantime, I feel springy enough to go to the Inauguration Ball.” The old man tried to jump quickly from his chair and gave a yip of pain, holding his lower back.

Riza dashed toward him to steady him by the arm and his back.

He groaned at his mistake and slowly sat back down. “I still want to go.”

It took place within Central Command. The courtyard was cleverly converted into a grandiose reception area as it took advantage of the cooler temperatures in the evening. On an elevated stage, a 16 piece orchestra played forgettable music.

Her eyes followed the new Fuhrer as he made his lone appearance from where she sat. She clapped slowly and without feeling. He dressed in a dashing suit, tailored to fit his athletic physique. He received comments on the progressive nature of his appearance, wearing a suit and tie in lieu of the expected military uniform. Eloquently, the Flame Alchemist commented on how he’ll have more than enough opportunities to wear the uniform and the crowd soaked it up, his charisma in full swing.

After the dinner, the Fuhrer gathered everyone’s attention. He made a speech of gratitude for their attendance, for their support, and for the ones especially who supported him from the beginning. He listed his friends in the academy and gave a heartwarming address in memoriam to his dear friend, the late Brigadier General Hughes. He personally thanked, by name, the rest of the old Mustang unit and those who helped him rebuild Ishval. “But my most sincere gratitude goes further back than my years in the military, I wouldn’t be who I am today if it wasn’t for her. In my times of darkness, in my times of happiness…”

As she felt herself hold her breath, she kicked herself. She couldn’t help it, especially with emotions running high at such a gratifying statement and she could swear he looked in her direction.

“…Chris Mustang, my foster mother, raising me after the untimely death of my parents.”

She smiled, despite herself. He didn’t name her. Nowhere in his touching speech, or his thanks. She looked towards her grandfather, who was smiling and possibly tearing up from the emotion. She clenched her fist from a fury she couldn’t place. She felt unlike herself. She wasn’t looking for a mention or anything like that. But to be completely ignored, to be tossed aside and overlooked in the same week was more than she could handle.

She tried to speak to Grumman, “Can you be-”

He shushed her and she felt taken aback. He eyes turned to her from the Fuhrer’s speech. “I’m trying to listen.”

She glanced back, trying to do the same. Nails were digging into her palm; it was almost laughable. Riza mentally tried to take a step back to wrangle in the hurricane of emotions. She bit her lip as his speech ended and he received a standing ovation. She clapped despondently and Grumman gingerly placed an arm over her wrist. She looked up at him.

“Is everything okay, my dear?” There was genuine concern, but she forced a smile on him to conceal her irrational behavior.

“Yes, perfect,” she responded.

The orchestra began to play and she swiveled in her chair to place her feet underneath the table cloth. Several gentlemen asked her to dance, probably something to do with her status as the previous Fuhrer’s granddaughter, but she graciously declined their offer, hardly in the mood to sway on the dancefloor.

Another hand appeared next to her arm with a “Care to dance?” She looked up and it was a uniformed officer this time, one she didn’t recognize except as Lieutenant Colonel by the stars on his epaulette. Riza offered a courteous smile and shook her head. “You’re too kind, but no, thank you.”

“I don’t want this dance, the Fuhrer does.”

Her arm fell on the round table and it rattled silverware and glassware alike. “Excuse me?”

“The Fuhrer wants this dance.” The man wriggled the fingers for her to take it, but his face remained stoic as he spoke.

“I’m honored, but I politely decline.”

“I’m under the express instruction to convey this as an order straight from the Fuhrer himself, Colonel.”

Her lips thinned, defeated.

A clever play on his part, she’ll give him that. He must have thought through asking her himself and the ruckus that would cause. This way he avoided looks if she were to decline like she just did. She took the hand and name of the Lieutenant Colonel who escorted her to newly established Fuhrer waiting at the end of the dancefloor.

She tried to control her breathing and outward cues of emotions. Unappreciative child or not, he was still the top of the military she was still enlisted under. His hands were behind his back, watching the other dancers. He turned towards them as they noticed them approaching. He smiled and it only made her stomach coil with subtle frustration.

“Good evening, Colonel.”

“Good evening, Your Excellency,” she responded listlessly, for the first time not saluting unnecessarily. She was off-duty, after all.

“I’m honored you accepted this dance,” he said, extending out his hand as the Lieutenant Colonel handed her to him.

“It was my pleasure, truly.”

He guided her to the dance floor and on cue, the music changed as he entered it. A soft, moderate-tempo waltz began to fill the air.

She felt a hand settle on her waist as he took his hand in hers. They began to move in tandem with the rhythm of the song. She said nothing and decidedly felt nothing, but the ire still bubbled under the contained surface.

“Did you enjoy the speech?” he asked her.

She glared at him as he moved her across the floor. She wasn’t sure if he was mocking her or if it was the machinations in her head. She took the high road. “It was moving. Grandfather might have shed a tear.”

“He was always a sentimental old coot.” She hummed in response, wishing to speak little to him. Unfortunately for her, he spoke again. “Can I take you out to dinner some time?”

Her eyes widened and before she could control herself, she moved the skirt of her long dress to extend over his foot as she mashed the heel into it.

Roy held back a pained groaned and smiled. He knew. “Someone’s angry.”

The statement cracked the surface of her emotional dam, and he kept prodding it. “Did I step on you? My apologies. You know military women aren’t suited for these events.”

“Nonsense, I’ve danced with plenty of military women and they dance just fine.” He twirled her and brought her closer with his hand at the small of her back. “In fact, I’d rate you a good 5 out of 10. Average is never bad.”

She stepped back to create the distance between them, biting the inside of her cheek.

“What do you think?”

“I think the song will end soon. I hope it will end sometime soon.”

He chuckled. “No, of dinner.”

“No.”

“Well, I can’t have a reminder of my rejection walking around; I foresee a transfer to the west.”

She chuckled this time, only bitterly. “That’s disappointing.”

“You didn’t take the bait to leave the military and I can’t promote a Colonel into First Lady. Instead, I’ll ask the lovely Colonel to dinner for now in hopes that I can convince her.”

Her heart felt like it stopped at the same time as the music. It finally clicked. “Everything you did: the transfer orders, the speech, the Lieutenant Colonel?”

He smiled smugly as he let her go. “All part of the plan.”

She mirrored his smile, watching him grab her hand and delicately kiss the back of it. “Plan to get a riot out of me?”

He raised his eyebrows as he came up. “An added perk. There’s a certain charm about you when you’re angry.” He led her off the dancefloor and asked her again.

She kissed his cheek and leaned in closer to his ear, whispering before she left him for her seat. “Try _harder, Fuhrer_.”


	2. White Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled: an ode to married life
> 
> Riza finds herself at odds with married life with the Fuhrer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Day 2 of Royai Week 2017: Catalyst

It builds up.  Bit by bit, it accumulates slowly within her.

_They’re small things_ she tells herself, but even grains of sand become deserts.

He comes home in a decorated military uniform and she plays the dignified housewife with more political duties than the average one. She shakes her head in contemplation. That isn’t the issue. It was never the issue. Even as his personal aide in the military, the glory was never hers. It was never in the scope of her desires, holding true to the present day. Like her previous profession, she maintains her vantage point at a distance, but simultaneously by his side. Up until a month ago, it was all she needed.

Yet, it builds up. Something does.

The Fuhrer’s wife recognizes a pattern. An unsecured pistol on the night stand. The thrown jacket on the chair. The milk jug left on the counter. Her endless store of patience suddenly begins to run thin and these small, mundane quirks grinds at her.

She glares at him as he peacefully eats breakfasts,reading the morning paper. His nonchalance and blissful unawareness infuriates her to the point of nausea.

Roy munches on his morning toast, nodding with the lines on the paper, not even looking up as he talks, “This toast is amazing. Who prepared this?” he swallows and chuckles to himself. “Oh wait, that was me.”

She watches him wipe his mouth the wrong way on the cloth napkin, humming with satisfaction. The top man of Amestris sets his used napkin on the plate. Her eyes narrow, this disgusts her without a valid reason why. _He knows not to, so why? As if we’re cavemen drawing alchemy arrays with sticks._ She seethes.

She looks up as he stands, walking over to give her a kiss on the forehead as his routine. Every day is a routine, but routine is a comfort for Riza Mustang and staring daggers into his back is a new one for her.

“I’m off.” He announces.

“Have a good day at work.” She replies with a tone betraying the culturing resentments.

Riza lifts herself from the chair, feeling the room spin. She looks to her plate, the food untouched from the focus she placed on her husband. She’s not hungry, but she only takes a bite into the toast, denying that perfect crunch out of principle. She picks the cloth napkin off his plate and the thought of yolk from the egg mingling with the white napkin nearly makes her sick just at the sight.

The First Lady knows her schedule; she asks one of the attendants all the same.

Her day consists of reading to children that adore her, conversing with foreign diplomats who talk in tones that bore her, and lastly, receiving news from a lab coat that floors her.

Once she returns home, the sun peeks into their shared bedroom, filling the room in twilight colors as she exchanges her First Lady™ attire for more comfortable clothing. Riza hears murmuring from the first floor. She begins to exit the room when a dark object catches her attention out of the corner of her eye. It’s his pistol that she sees and she bites her bottom lip gently. She holds it in her hands and hears him laughing downstairs . She chooses her battle and secures the pistol.

She descends to the first floor, glancing into passing each room in her search for her spouse. She passes the open study and she halts abruptly. On top of the back of a chair, a blue-hued military jacket hung tossed and forgotten on the back of a chair. She feels a little twitch at her cheek and she wills it away the looming thoughts, hanging the wool coat in the closet a few steps away.

Riza hears someone clearing their throat coming from the kitchen. From the arched threshhold, she sees the refrigerator door open and someone hunched over. He notices her by  her footsteps and her wonderful husband stands up straight in response to her approach. “Oh, hey. How was your day?”

She looks at him, stunned. She witnesses as he holds the container of milk, drinking straight from it.  But that isn’t what sets her off; it isn’t even the spark. It isn’t the top that he doesn’t fastened when he replaces it. She narrows her eyes just to make sure her eyes aren’t deceiving her. Hovering above his lip is a white shadow resembling the dark times of the days he sported at the abominable mustache. The accumulation of the pale liquid sits there on his upper lip and it sets her off.

That is the catalyst.

“Why are you like this?” She says, in a whisper, trying to contain the tremble that shakes her voice.

It stops him in his tracks. “What?”

Her fists clench, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. Her heart roars in her warmed ears. “Why are you like this?” She repeats with fervor,  evoking a worried look from him.

“What do you mean?”

She frowns deeply. “The nightstand, the jacket, the milk, your lips.” She gestures with a pointed finger to their respective locations and it takes her a moment to realize she isn’t making sense. It is a ghost of rationale and it is with her for a short amount of time, fleeing after her. He’s staring at her like she’s hysterical.

“My wha-?” He wipes of them milk on his upper lip. “Riza, what are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” She almost shrieks. “What do you think I’m talking about?”

He’s pensive for a moment as she stands there in her ire. “Honestly? I have no clue.”

“Use your eyes! They were given back to you for a reason.” She storms out of the kitchen, but he follows.

“Is this about the cheese I left out?” He guesses incorrectly, but it explains the horrible smell.

She stops. She breathes out, grabbing her temples and shaking her head. She inhales to calm herself, but it doesn’t work. “I can’t live like this. Do you not care? How can you not see?” She brings an hand up to her forehead as she begins to pace and the breath within her does not seem to be enough.

“Riza, Riza, wait.” He grabs her shoulders and she looks up to see the concern, but it could be fabricated or she could be going crazy. She returns his look with watering eyes, waiting for him to speak again. “Tell me, Riza. What’s wrong?”

“I’m…” She takes in a deep breath, feeling nausea flare up, remembering the lab coat. “…pregnant.” She feels him tense.

“Oh.”


	3. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the years behind her and their achievements now set in stone, Riza muses over a statue in the park. 
> 
> Collaboration for Day 4 of Royai Week 2017: Promise - you can find the companion piece over on tumblr under @ ask-royai-lty. Bianca did such a wonderful job ;-;

It’s a quiet mid-morning in Central. The day is vibrant and a slight breeze ruffles the grayed bangs away from her face. She recalls several days like today: the calm deception of the Promised Day or perhaps a proud, short day such as the last Fuhrer’s inauguration. The memories remind her how much has changed since then.

The saying goes: Time leaves nothing unaltered.

Aches settle in her bones and her hands now tremble. She uses a curved cane to bolster her steps and her muscles no longer respond with youthful vigor. The Hawk’s Eye precision blurs with passage of time. The years of building up strength dwindles with each passing day, but she carries the weight of their past all the same.

An old woman walks in her shoes now, past her golden years. She blends into the crowd seamlessly, an elder enjoying her routine stroll. A bittersweet smile sneaks onto her lips; for years now, her walks across the park are lonelier and all she cares to do is reminisce.

 Her walk takes more effort than normal and she blames the illness of living for far too long. In spite of all that, she rounds the corner of the bricked pathway The highlight of her walk comes into view: a grandiose effigy of the last Fuhrer and the first elected President of Amestris.

Time doesn’t alter this

The textures and layers reels her back to the Amestrian Blues she used to wear proudly. She could almost see the vibrant hue on the dull stone and recall the feel of the heavy wool.His face is stern and fierce like the man they portrayed him to be. _The Hero of Ishval. The Flame Alchemist._ She thinks of him each time she walks by.  As she approaches the tablet, she doesn’t have to read the tablet displayed in front of her to know the name. It’s burned into her heart.

**Roy Mustang.**

She jokes every time that the builders forgot a title he held and she didn’t bother correcting. _Her beloved._

She moves nearer and it’s his young face on the statue, not the aged man she saw last weary-eyed and ill. Her hands hover over the writing on the inscription, describing his accomplishments and the historical outcome for Amestris.

Her tired eyes glide up the statue and the sun is almost too bright to get a good look at him. Her equally tired heart manages to spring. He’s still as handsome as the boy she met. In the statue, she sees eyes full of fire and life. The same passion that inspired the souls of an entire population despite the crumbling nation they inherited.

The monument captures the pride in his stance, in his outstretched hand curving into his signature snap while the other in his pocket, and coat tails stuck in a never ending breeze behind him.  He’s an inspirational reminder for the new generation of soldiers and citizens alike. A legend, but only a block of stone.

The glory in his prime wasn’t in the flame alchemy that immortalized him. The path of atonement for their sins doesn’t allow room for glory and Riza cannot kid herself that behind  his stern, but empathetic expression lied a tormented man.

She remembers the two of them, both trying to redeem themselves after Ishval. It takes them ten years before they can go back to the land of their sins. All those years punishing themselves, she didn’t limit herself in only seeing the famed alchemist, or the youngest General - she sees her Roy. The Roy haunted by the civil war.

There’s more to him, she reminisces, as the young apprentice. 

She wants them to know the young, naive and idealistic man who had studied under her father and not the one that was shown the horrors of the war. The one who would put his subordinates over himself. The goofy nature he kept despite it all. The Roy on rainy days. The Roy no one saw behind those accomplishments.

No one cares to remember that man, his human counterpart. Riza makes a wholehearted effort.

Her own eyes took in the entire picture, every facet, every edge. She was fascinated with him until his final breath. She pauses and smiles as she catches herself in her own lie, ghosting over the edifice of the statue’s base. She’s still fascinated by him.

Time never altered the love for him.

The statue represents the Roy that people had seen him become  and what she witnessed him do to achieve his “misplaced” fame bestowed upon him. However, it doesn’t represent Roy Mustang, not truly.

She wishes she could have had input when they built the statue in his image. She wishes she could show the world the Roy she knew.

She wants to fulfill the promise she made all those years ago when her hair was short and the sand hadn’t shed from her skin yet. ‘Even into hell.’

It’s only a matter of time now.

“I’ll see you again soon.” The words are coarse and trembling. She kisses the tips of her fingers and reaches for the protruding letters spelling his name.

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to a lot of "Who lives, who dies, who tells your story" for this one. basically on repeat


	4. Dear Mr. Mustang,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character study over the span of one year as Riza writes Mr. Mustang letters during his time at the academy. 
> 
> Day 5 of Royai 2017 : Letters

_January 10th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_The house is quieter with you gone. It’s funny, all that time trying to keep the noise down and it’s the first thing I notice. Father barely speaks, I think he’s still furious with you -  he doesn’t show it, he was never one to vocalize his thoughts. He stays in his study, leaving his comfort zone for dinner time or at night once he’s done brooding, I suppose._

_I’m not completely sure why you’ve asked me to write to you, but your face looked genuine when you asked so I won’t take it as a jest. I suppose I’ve run out of things to say. I’d like to know what the academy is like. I wish you the best in your training._

_Riza H._

Riza bit on the edge of her inkpen, nervous about the words that she wanted to say without saying too much.  She sat back into her wooden chair, having half a mind to tear it into pieces. Her hand hovered over the sheet, ready to crumple into a ball, but she hesitated.

Leaning forwards, she grabbed the short edge of the letter and folded, creasing it to fit neatly within an envelope. She tucked the letter away to drop off at the postal office during her trip to town.

* * *

_January 30th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_Winter classes are in session again. I’ll admit the house seems lonelier. In between the usual upkeep around the house and work from the courses given, there’s hardly a soul to speak to besides what I’m doing now in these letters. I’ve played with the thought of leaving this place too. You always talked about the big city and I only have my imagination and images from books to go by. Perhaps, one day, I could go see the rest of Amestris. I laugh just thinking about it._

_As I write this, Father’s cough is going off a few doors down into his study.  Someone would need to take care of him. I do hope these get to you. Old Lady Germaine at the post says I’m addressing them right. If not, I hope a kind stranger takes comfort in the musings of a random girl._

_Riza H._

* * *

_February 16th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_I’m hesitant to write this, even now. I feel as though I’m being irrational and losing focus over stupid letters. For heaven’s sake, you’re in the military academy and I’m just someone with too much time on their hands who can’t handle a father who mumbles to himself about a legacy and his alchemy like a madman. I can’t_

The pen veered off the paper’s edge and dropped onto surface of the desk with a clatter, and her palms pressed down into her eyes to stop the manifestation of tears. She knew it was a lost cause. She tore herself down, reprimanding herself her letters were just that, not a diary.  Her father’s voice became eerily clear in her head, encompassing her own thoughts. She was 17, not a child with her mind in the clouds.

She shut her eyes, curling her body into the seat of the chair. The temptation to leave was all she could think about.

In a way, she envied Roy and his ability to pack up and leave once as the apprenticeship came to a close. Her time would come, Riza consoled herself.

Taking a deep breath, she wiped the remnants from her moment of weakness into the collar of her dress. Her hand ripped the letter and tossed the pieces into the wastebin next to her desk. Riza lifted the surface of her desk to produce another sheet of paper. She began again.

_February 16th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_How’s the winter treating you in the academy? I’ve been very busy with schoolwork. I sometimes find time to go out into the field and shoot some old cans - glass bottles if I’m lucky. I wonder what it is like to have a dog as a companion. Father takes strolls on his own. He hasn’t offered apprenticeship to anyone else. What little he says, he’s always sure to remind me to keep mindful of my studies and says no one can take my education from me. Are you keeping up with what you learned here? Or has it all gone away?  Best wishes._

_Riza H._

* * *

_February 29th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_A day that only comes around every four years. An unusual occurrence in our everyday lives, like birds singing in the winter, sunlight during the rain, or my father coming home with groceries and packages after a day out on the town. Can you believe father goes out? It seems a new life has gotten into him lately._

_He’s mostly silent to me. But there is something unsettling, where his eyes wanders. It’s not at me, but it’s something around me and I can’t quite place where they roam. Could he be going mad after all? He seems better but..I digress._

_Best Wishes  
Riza H._

* * *

_March 15th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_Whether or not you’re getting these, they’re my only consolation. It takes my mind away. The Ishvalan War is getting more dangerous and closer to rural areas such as my quiet little hometown. Father’s malady bothers him less as the temperature begins to warm. He makes trips still to the town._

_I talked to him about if I could ever travel out of town and go see Mother’s grave that lies at a cemetery a little more to the east. He became irrationally furious. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. He degraded my intelligence, which was off-putting, but … The anniversary of her death is soon, perhaps I should feel some empathy for the loss of his wife, as well.  Hope you’re well._

_  
Riza H._

* * *

_March 21, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_I’m terrified. I have nightmares._

The letter dated March 15th laid on her desk; it settled unwritten. Riza placed the heavy quilt given to her by her mother and tried to find the comfort or a light to latch on to.

* * *

_May 25th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_It’s your birthday. I wish I had saved the address to your Aunt Chris so that I could send a gift there, but I seem to have lost my head and with it the address you left behind. I swore I placed it somewhere safe. I’m biting my lip as I write this - I miss your goofy nature. Your light heartedness brought a little glee to this otherwise dull existence. I laughed harder than I ever remember doing and my smiles are far and few between now._

_This is rather forward of me and quite unlike me, but I reminisce on the the summer days where we spent the lazy afternoon under the clouds. I never imagined I could enjoy losing time watching the clouds roll by. It’s only been a half a year, but it seems so long ago now._

_Best Wishes,  
Riza H._

* * *

_June 18th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_We managed to go visit her. Her grave was no longer intact. Father was silent the entire ride home and there was something in the surface of his eyes that I wasn’t able to read. Perhaps I’ve been staring at them as listlessly brown eyes that any emotion would be so foreign for me._

_There was a skirmish of some kind with the Ishvalans and now there’s no telling where the grave was amongst the barren wasteland. It should be alarming that the fighting is nearby, but military men came to our door and spoke to me about the safety they were assuring._

_Father, as bold and brash as he is, spat in their faces. I apologized for it. Thankfully, they were convinced when I told him in low tones that he was missing a screw. I saw their heads look at the state of the house and they understood immediately that it was just us there. Whether I should be unsettled by it, we’ll find out._

_My heart aches, Roy. I’ve seen my mother’s grave a handful of times. The memory of her is so fleeting and I barely remember what she looks like any more. I shed my tears, not for the loss of a mother, but the only memory that was tangible.  I have a theory Father took down all the pictures and destroyed them. I wonder if I look like her, would that be the explanation for his cold behavior towards me? On a lighter, yet somehow darker note, could you imagine a daughter with the spitting image of Berthold Hawkeye with a bow? Best Wishes._

_Riza H._

* * *

_September 12th, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang._

_It’s my birthday. But there hardly seems a reason to celebrate. The sky is dark and gloomy as if winter will approach earlier this year.  The entire summer has passed and classes are over. I wonder why he felt the need to send me to school. Does he possibly intend to marry me off to someone? What are his plans? He seems like he’s in a scheming mood, but I’ve mentioned before his behavior is unlike from what I’ve seen since you left for the academy._

_I’ll blow out a candle or perhaps an imaginary one. I’ll take comfort in the times I made your birthday cake. Or the one year you tried to surprise me with a small cake for me. You said “small cake for the small lady.” I was so mad, but I hold that memory dearly now.  It was an awful cake too. Someone should teach you how to bake. If only you’d learn._

_Take care.  
Riza H._

* * *

_November 27, 1904  
Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_Do you believe we’re born with our burdens? That we’ll never escape them  no matter how fast you run? Forgive me for being vague. The tears that fall are trying not to dilute the ink on the paper as I write this and I don’t have the energy to begin once more._

_Alchemy is lauded like the salvation of mankind. If this is the product of alchemy,  if this is what my father has to show for his years of research, then I wish I had no part of it. There’s a fire on my back and I cannot extinguish it. It burns terribly, like his alchemy. I’ve fallen sick from it, from his inexperience in the application of it._

_If you ever have a child, promise me you won’t treat them like my father has treated me. I hardly have words to speak to him. He speaks to me now with a tone of concern. I know it’s not for me. Not for the welfare of Riza Hawkeye.  Was I unworthy of it? Did he question my aptitude? Did he not think I’d be capable? Questions are swirling in my head, pleading for answers, and I lack the courage to confront him. What else is he capable of? What more do I not know of Berthold Hawkeye? Please send me your regards. I beg for someone to show me they still care for a forgotten girl in a rundown house._

_Riza H._

* * *

_January 12, 1905  
Dearest Mr. Mustang,_

_It’s the new year. A whole year has gone by and a lot has happened since you’ve gone to your military academy for reasons I may never know. I’ve sent a myriad of letters and I’m not sure if you’ve received them or if there isn’t time for you. But as I said, this is the new year and I suppose I should create my own closure by properly saying good-bye - for my own sake.  Plenty has happened, the unspeakable - things I never thought I’d witness, but I bear the scars of it. You gave me an insight of a different type of life. I can only hope I can get a semblance of what that’s like._

_I never thought I’d admit this to myself. I wish that you were here. Wherever you are, stay safe, Roy. Best Wishes._

_  
Riza H._

Delicate hands folded the letter into straight creases before it slipped effortlessly into the white envelope and addressed it for the last time.

With a sadness in the depths of her chest, she sealed the envelope, rising from her chair. Riza exited her room and saw the light escape from the cracks of her father’s study. A warm jacket weighed heavily against her tiny frame, but the bite to her cheeks reminded her that a minor inconvenience was leagues better than frostbite to her skin.

Old Lady Germaine no longer worked the post office, having recently retired. Her granddaughter now ran it for her. The girl around the same age as Riza perked as she entered the building. Riza shivered off the change in temperature and began to materialize the letter from the inner lining of her jacket.

“Miss Hawkeye, right?”

A little stunned to be called by name by someone she didn’t see too often, she nodded slowly. This was a small town after all.

“My grandmother said you’d be coming in a lot.”

It made her embarrassed and Riza thanked the cold for the redness on her cheeks. She silently placed the letter on the counter, sliding over to the girl to handle.

She smiled at her as she took it, but extended her other hand, “I’m Germaine, like my grandmother.” Young Germaine, she thought comically.

She took the hand and shook it courteously. “Riza Hawkeye. Nice to meet you.”

“Same to you! I’ll see you around.” Riza heard her say as she turned around to exit back into the bitter cold.

As she walked back into the deteriorating manor, at first, she thought her father was in his study again rambling to himself like the self-deluded madman he became. However, as she hung the coat on the rack, Riza listened carefully and distinguished a second voice. It was deeper and louder than the weak voice of her father. Curious, Riza began to ascend the stairs to second story, trying not to stir the noise out of the steps.

The second voice sounded as if they were pleading and her father responded with the emotionless tenor that somehow broke her heart every time.

Suddenly, it changed.

Riza heard the chatter grow into yells. A plea for someone to help, for a doctor, “Someone call a doctor! Is anybody here?!”  

Riza dashed as quickly as her thawing legs would allow her to the origin of the sound from the study. The panic set in her and she didn’t know who was in her house or what was going on, but someone beckoned for her that wasn’t her father.

At the threshold, she froze in a manner likening to the ice outside. She leaned against the door with her palms to catch herself and her face contorted in a look of disbelief and horror.

She smelled the tin in the air. Blood contrasted against the white of the paper on the desk. The cough that deteriorated her father’s health only worsened with the winter, and her father was slung around the shoulder of a military officer. It took her a moment to register the face and she could swear the feeling of her feet nearly left.

It was him. Standing in the flesh. Terror in his eyes.

“Riza!”She heard him shout.

The family doctor came right as the feeling gathered in her fingers. Berthold Hawkeye was pronounced dead at 12:47 pm on January 12th, 1905.

She didn’t offer Mr. Mustang to stay the night with her the Hawkeye manor, so he stayed at an inn in town. He left the next day to take care of some matters in Central. He said he’d be back for the funeral he was going to pay for.

The letters became insignificant now. They were nonexistent and she vowed the topic would never surface unless he brought it up. The feeling of embarrassment from being acknowledged like a stranger. She couldn’t help but doubt herself. Her thoughts went to the few summers they spent together, a time when she didn’t see him the way she did now. Where they all in her head? Did she not only inherit her father’s legacy but his lunacy too?

Riza felt the quietness of the house. It was so silent. She could feel his ghost around her, especially on her back.

It was a surreal moment. Riza entered her father’s study and began sort through his belongings and organize the clutter he had left behind. There were books upon books stacked halfway to the ceiling and filled the bookshelf. Some of them with paper notes jutting out the edges and she hated each and every blank book for not being good enough for her late father.

She let out a sigh without anyone in the large house to hear it. Once the loose papers and strewn books were organized, she reached for one of the many trunks and opened it. This one was more organized with folders and dividers to separate papers. There was a clump at the back that made the dividers bend from the breadth of the contents.

As her delicate fingers wiggled it out, her eyes widened and she felt a cold sweat suddenly spread across the surface of her skin. In her hands were a stack of letters with a string wrapping them together. In the front was her familiar handwriting and the familiar address she wrote so many times

Her breath escaped through her lips.

**Roy Mustang  
Renwall Military Academy   
East City, Amestris**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last one for Royai Week 2017 is Defuse which is smut and an entirely different rating! But I hope you enjoyed these as much as I enjoyed writing them! <3 You can find more drabbles and such on tumblr (capthawkeye) where i'm more active. Always open to prompts!


	5. Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a part of Royai week, but a drabble. 
> 
> On tumblr, an anon asked: "could you maybe write something in Roys perspective about him not receiving anything from Riza? Or maybe a confrontation about the letters?"

There’s a smile on her face when he asks – she probably doesn’t know it herself, but he sees it. The corner of his lip twitches upwards and he looks away, he doesn’t want her to notice his ulterior motives. Not that they’re malicious, but it brings a warming sensation upon his cheeks.

A throat clears and a chill shoots through him – afraid that he was caught in the act. Roy shifts slightly and his feet touch the reason he asks her to write him. He can feel that icy blue stare from the second story and a frown bringing out the wrinkles lining his face.

Roy rubs the back of his neck and Riza finally notices her Father standing at the balcony. He’s lamenting his lost opportunity to hug her good-bye; his last opportunity to cement the idea that he wants her to write him and before he could say anything else-

“Riza,” He calls to her and she twists so rapidly he thinks she might break her neck. “Show Mr. Mustang the door, if you will.” She lowers her head with a silent diffidence and the warm atmosphere he had with her vanished with the simplicity of one command.

He grabs the handle of his suitcase, his master’s eyes never tearing away from him even as his shoulders turned. Roy makes for the threshold and tries to see her eyes before he leaves – a departing souvenir for his leave. She keeps her head bowed as he walks past her. As his feet cross the threshold, he begins to feel spread of regret. He’s embarrassed at how much he envisioned this farewell would go in his mind’s eye and it was far less than he anticipated.

She makes it up to him, quietly speaking with her downcast head, “Good bye, Roy.”

He dares to look back, feeling the smile flourish on his lips as he finds her softened brown eyes but also the unsettling glare from her father at her back.

The first few weeks at the Academy are less than welcoming and if he was honest with himself, Roy preferred the lazy afternoons in a sleepy town and a precious friend. He admits to no one but himself that his hopes are high every time the mail comes and a pair of hopeful, black eyes stare down the mailman. But he always disappoints.

Roy knows he left the address, in multiple places for her to find. And when he finally makes a friend at the Academy, he is teased by his bespectacled companion of awaiting a letter from a girl back home. It wasn’t home, but she made it his home away from home.

The memories bring fuzzy sensations, but they only last so long.

Weeks become months, months turns into the year and by the time of graduation from the military academy he remembers he didn’t receive a single letter from her. It doesn’t hurt or make him sad, but he hopes for her wellbeing.

When her father dies in front of her, in his arms no less, her face no longer has that vibrancy or warmth. It’s as if the cold enraptured and eradicated the part of Riza her father didn’t bother knowing. Her eyes droop from a state of exhaustion and a void he hasn’t seen in anyone else.

He realizes why after the funeral. But there’s a freedom to her that he notes in the tension that dissipates in her shoulders and the weight that he lifts from the notes on her back.

It’s the middle of the Ishvalan Civil War and he catches those familiar eyes again, they are war torn and that emptiness he’d seen is exacerbated by the death and sand. They’ve seen hell like his and if he could just keep her at that threshold back in that sleepy town, he would.

And it isn’t until she’s his adjutant in a city that contrasts her hometown in every single aspect, that the memory resurfaces. His eyes lifts from the form she’s making him do and they’re alone in his East City office.

She gives him a smile, but her eyes don’t mean it. She pushes back a strand of her bang behind her ear like she does when she’s caught off guard.

He knits his hands over his paperwork awaiting, now able to tame the rapid beat in his heart.

“I never got a chance to, sir.”


End file.
